Scorched

It was sealed by a spell. Damnation.

Frustrated, she ran her fingers over the surface of the box, seeking any means of prying it open by sheer force. Her long nails found the crease where the lid closed and dug in, grabbing the silver handle with her other hand. She pulled, gritting her teeth and giving every ounce of anger to the task. Her fingers began to ache, the nails bending away from her flesh.

The only thing that gave was her grip on the handle. She slipped, cutting herself on the tarnished metal.

“Bollocks!”

Blood welled from her finger and dripped onto the tooled leather surface of the box. Constance hastily swiped it away, but left a dark smudge across the lid. As if I needed to leave more evidence of my crime!

The box made a noise like the pop of a latch. Startled, she pulled her hands away and it slithered from her lap to the floor, landing with a bump. Grabbing it again, she barely stopped it from tumbling over.

The top of the box sprang open in a corona of light. The only thing missing was a fanfare of trumpets.

Bloody hell!

Literally. The sacrifice of blood had opened it. What’s the point of that?

Then she was distracted.

Rubies glinted in bracelets of beaten gold. Pearls snaked in endless ropes, winding in and around a glittering confusion of brooches, rings, and the crowns of long-forgotten kings. After years of the gray, drab monotony of the Castle, the glitter of light and color nearly burned her eyes.

She picked at the top of the pile, rattling the riches with impatient fingertips. And then she found it. There. That’s what she was after: a circle of patterned gold no bigger than a cherry. She might have mistaken it for a coin. It was worth more than money.

A key.

Atreus had said there had only ever been nine, and four had been destroyed. One had been bound into a book of demon magic that was now lost. There were only four left, and Josef had already stolen one of those. He’d used it to escape to the outside world before he could succumb to his beast, like his brother, Viktor.

She’d never learned how he’d managed to steal it, but then, Josef was a daring warrior. She was a plain milkmaid. She had been used to enduring, keeping her head down, not thinking up grandiose and daring schemes, not risking her master’s wrath—especially not once she had Sylvius to care for. Daring only came once Atreus had hurt someone she loved.

Well, she had it now.

She picked up the key. It looked exactly like the one Josef had shown her, a rich gold that held streaks of some darker, tawny metal. The design looked like a ragged sun.

Josef had said the keys would find a way out. Anyone could use them—but how?

A key will take me to the outside world, where there are many, many humans. I can hunt there. I can have my full vampire powers. Then she would come back strong, transformed, and rescue Sylvius.

For the first time since I was a girl, I will breathe free air.

A wave of dizziness overtook her.

Freedom.

A glove of ice fisted her heart. She hadn’t walked outside the Castle for so long. Josef had helped her figure it out: she’d been here for two and a half centuries. The outside world had changed. She would be lost. Exposed. Confused.

She wanted to go. She needed to go, but the open skies would feel like the top of her skull was being lifted away. Fear of all that open space, of all those people ...

A thick quiet sifted like dust in the Castle’s shadows. I’ve been here too long.

Don’t think about it. Surely it’s not so bad.

Constance dropped the key down the front of her tightly laced bodice. It slid, rough and cold, down the hollow between her breasts. The key was going to poke at her, a constant reminder of what she’d done. Just like her conscience. Thief!

Closing the jewel chest, Constance set it back in the trunk. Perhaps it would have been wise to take other jewels to sell or trade, but she wasn’t going to compound the error of her ways. All the years spent in the Castle, in the violent courts of a sorcerer-king, hadn’t clouded her sense of right and wrong. She’d fought to defend herself, but she’d never killed. She’d enjoyed luxuries, but never stolen. Until now.

She’d grown up poor, and had grown poor again as Atreus’s power withered. She understood that when a person had very little, it mattered if someone took it away. For that reason, she never wanted anything she didn’t have a right to. But then she did take a knife, sliding it into her sheath. She needed to replace the one Reynard had confiscated. Surely that was justified?

After she closed the lid of the trunk, Constance crept from the room, the key a hope held tight above her still heart.

She knew where there was a door.

It had appeared about a year ago after a great battle. It was clearly no ordinary door, for it was locked so securely that the guardsmen had never bothered to post a watch. Just the occasional patrol passed by it.

Still, its presence baffled Constance. Despite the keys, despite the odd portal that flickered open when a demon was summoned, the Castle was meant to be air-tight. A prison. So why was there suddenly a door? Perhaps Reynard is right and the Castle’s magic is falling to pieces. Like Atreus.

She slowed her steps. The door was now within sight. Still walking, Constance took out the coin-shaped key. Unfortunately, Josef had neglected to mention how the wretched things worked.

She glanced over her shoulder, giving way to an involuntary shudder. A patrol could come, and she’d seen what they’d done to the last poor fool who’d earned their wrath. Bran had a taste for skinning his victims alive.

At a trot, she crossed the last few feet to the door and pressed her hand against the rough surface. Her fingers looked frail against the wood, except for the long, sharp nails. The possibility of liberty was delicious, but it was terrifying, too. She could taste fear on her tongue, bitter as a new penny.

Pay no attention. Keep moving. This is for Sylvius. “Constance.”

She gasped, wheeling. Then she recognized him. Lore!

“Where the bloody hell did you come from? What are you doing here?” she asked, every hair on her body tingling with shock. “I thought you’d gone. Escaped. You and your whole pack.”

It was all she could do not to slap him for scaring her clear to her second death.

It had been a year since she had seen Sylvius’s childhood friend, but Lore looked the same. His dark hair was still long and shaggy, his face still gypsy-dark, the prominent bones giving him the same rough-hewn look as all the hellhounds. The young alpha looked fit and healthy, his slim, tightly muscled body moving with vigor. His clothes were different, cleaner and better mended than she remembered.

He leaned against the wall, bending his tall frame so he could see her face. “Why are you waiting by the door, Grandmother?”

She grimaced at the name. It was a title of extreme respect, one he knew she hated. At her disgusted expression, a rare grin split his long face. Hellhounds, like any dog, were not above teasing those they liked.

“How did you get back in here?” She dropped her voice to a whisper, just in case.

“When we escaped the Castle, we regained our magic.” He spoke slowly, his words slightly accented. The hounds had their own tongue, and rarely spoke with other species. “One of those talents is unlocking doors. As long as I do not stay long enough for the Castle’s magic to affect my powers, I can come and go.”

“Why by Saint Margaret’s toenails would you want to come back?”

He gave her a long look, the torchlight deepening the hollows in his face.

She folded her arms, hugging herself. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

One never asked a hellhound too many questions. Unlike almost every other species in creation, they could not lie. It was even hard for them to evade a direct question.

“I don’t like standing here in the open,” she added.

He cupped her elbow and drew her around the corner and into the shadows. “You should not have asked